Smoke
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch and Sarah Zelman are in danger of snapping and turning on each other, as they struggle to solve their current case. John takes matters into his own hands in an effort to relax them both, only this time it's not about explicit pleasures. Have they missed something vital? Will they be able to solve their case without it costing them their relationship?


"Smoke"

by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2010)

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Disclaimer: Wolf owns John Munch, but I own Sarah Zelman.

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"This entire day was an exercise in frustration," John Munch decided, putting his leather portfolio of case files on Sarah Zelman's dining room table. "I can't believe we didn't put down the Melendez case today. We were _this_ close, until the phone records didn't match up." He didn't follow any part of his usual routine when he walked through the front door of her condo. Instead, he began to pace a tight circle within the bounds of her living room.

"He used a disposable, John, he had to," Sarah asserted. "We almost assumed it from the beginning." She was every bit as agitated as her partner, refusing to slip out of her boots, unbutton her shirt or even start up her laptop as was her nightly custom. "There's something we're missing here – "

"Gee, ya think?" he snapped, immediately regretting his tone.

"Maybe we need separate space to think this one through." She fought to keep her voice even, painfully aware the entire squad had been verbally sparring for the past forty-eight hours.

"Please don't send me home to mull this case over on my own." He stopped, looking at her with his hands on his hips. "I think we've both been doing enough of that lately." He breathed a long sigh, wondering what piece of the puzzle would finally send a rapist who tortured and strangled his victim to Rikers for an eternity. "We need to focus on this together, Sarah, you know it as well as I do." He let his hands drop to his sides, feeling more beaten down by this case than he'd been by any other in months.

"I'm not sending you home, John, I'm just saying we've combed through this case so much over the past few days, we're spent." She sat down heavily at the dining room table, watching him as she sadly shook her head. "We're both in overdrive right now. We've barely slept, hardly even been home – if not for takeout food, we'd have starved to death." She spread her hands in a gesture asking him what to do next.

"We have enough adrenaline between us to run a power plant," he said, still unwilling to sit down or even pretend to relax. "I think I know what we need. I'll be right back." He walked toward the door, her hand reaching out to his as he almost went past. "I'll be gone maybe ten minutes."

"You're going back to your place for some Columbian gold, aren't you?" It wouldn't have been the first time, nor the last, John had decided to bring some grass back from his place for a rooftop toke. "Either that or you've got a stash of my old Xanax you haven't told me about." She gently pulled on his hand, in an effort to get him to stay.

"No and no," he replied gently. "You'll find out when I get back. Despite the fact our rapist's vic was on our home turf, I can safely walk to Enrique's and get what we need." Borges' Bodega was a local hole in the wall joint where John and Sarah picked up things between trips to C-Town, the local grocery store. He pulled his suit coat aside, allowing her full view of his Glock 34 nestled in the belt holster on his hip. To further his point, he tugged up his right pants leg barely enough to show her he was still wearing his backup piece in his ankle holster. "Stop worrying. Our perp has no idea we've been tailing him, Sarah. I'm not going into dangerous territory during a five-minute walk." He squeezed her hand, opened the door and was gone before she could protest further.

John trotted down the stairs, breezing past her doorman and through the small lobby to the street, a man on a mission. He understood why Sarah was showing more than her usual level of concern, the vic having been one of the many women who'd attended their safety and self-defense seminars. They both felt she'd known the man who'd raped and murdered her, but finding a way to nail Rosario Melendez's attacker was deeply frustrating them all. The man the squad liked for the crime was proving to be slippery, with an alibi they'd have to work harder to crack.

As they fought for sleep last night, John awoke to find Sarah at her bedroom window, gazing down upon the sidewalk below. She'd asked him if he thought they were the common denominator, whether there would be more victims from their neighborhood – women who had taken the course they offered through the local community center. He hadn't wanted to tell her she could be right, instead he talked his way around the issue as he'd plied her with a mug of herbal tea and soft music until they both fell into a few scarce hours of uneasy slumber.

Munch walked into the bodega, scanning the nearly empty store for a moment before he went to the counter. He nodded to Enrique, who preferred to work the evening shift, the middle-aged Puerto Rican knowing almost every one of his customers by sight if not by name.

"John, how's it goin'? You're by yourself tonight?" At least half the time he came in with Sarah by his side, the two of them grabbing something cold to drink while they walked through the neighborhood.

"Just me tonight, Enrique," he replied. "It's a quick trip this time." He didn't want to chat, preferring to select a bottle of Bordeaux to take back to her place. As he approached the counter, he nodded to a display case behind his friend. "B and H – one green, one gold." He pulled out some bills, paid and left almost as quickly as he'd entered.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Sarah's shoulders jumped as she heard his key unlock the top deadbolt. "You're right – that was fast." She stood, kissing him before he went into the kitchen for two of her least expensive pieces of stemware. "I take it we're having wine, even though we haven't decided on dinner yet?"

"Food will wait," he insisted. "We're going to the roof." Without another word, she took the glasses from him and followed him to the asphalt covered top of the building. Several empty benches gave them a choice of where to sit, cozy among an eclectic collection of flower boxes, greenery and the container gardens of many tenants.

He sat her down on a bench farthest from the edge of the roof, painfully aware of how she hated heights. Before she could ask about the bag, he plunged his hand inside to bring out two small packages. "Extreme stress calls for equally extreme measures," he began. "A box of Benson & Hedges menthols for you and a gold box of their usual 100s for me. Smoke 'em if you've got 'em," he quipped, as he deftly opened both packs.

She looked at him, a mixture of amusement and disbelief on her face. "We haven't done this in months. But I think you're right – it's exactly what we need this time." She took the cigarette he'd tapped out of her pack, waiting as he readied his own. He produced a book of matches, lighting hers as she leaned in toward him. "Cigarettes and red wine… John, you are full of surprises."

He took a long drag on his own cigarette, feeling the sudden rush of nicotine almost make him high. "I feel like I'm contributing to the delinquency of an ex-FBI agent." He cracked a smile for the first time in days. "You sure you're okay with this? I know we both quit an eternity ago, years before we knew each other existed."

"Do you hear me complaining?" she asked softly. "We're both able to handle this without becoming addicted again. It certainly helps ease the stress, too, but you knew that." She smiled, gesturing toward the bottle of wine. "Good idea, bringing something a little less intoxicating than tequila shots. Aren't we on call tonight?"

"We are, but a single glass of wine isn't going to render us incapable of working," he assured her. John took the small red multi-tool from his pants pocket, opened the wine and poured them each a scant few ounces.

They drank, the depth of the wine conveying its own taste of opulent fruit and subtle tobacco undertones. In the low lighting, they were only visible in shadow, the glow from the tips of their smokes brilliant orange in the twilight. After several long minutes of silence, Sarah spoke up. "I have a theory, Sarge."

John huffed softly, putting down his glass. "I'm only 'Sarge' when we're working, Sarah – remember our agreement." He dropped his cigarette butt, grinding it out with the heel of his wingtip, then picked it up to bury into the sand of a nearby receptacle.

"Trust me, you may not realize it but right now we _are_ working." She took a long sip of the ruby liquid in her glass, wondering if he'd buy into her latest idea on the case. "What if our perp took Rosario's cellphone as his trophy?"

He considered it, tipping his head back slightly as if seeing the crime scene anew. "Granted, we've both heard of and seen much stranger trophies in our time. You're forgetting we dumped her phone immediately after her husband came in and reported her missing."

Sarah's tone conceded his point. "The key phrase is 'immediately after.' Do you see where I'm going with this, John?" She finished her wine, glad for once she hadn't consumed enough to get buzzed.

"You think he still has her phone, using it to relive the rush he got from the murder." It made perfect sense to Munch. They'd dumped the victim's phone too early, which wasn't usually the case. It ran counter-intuitive to what they'd been thinking, but now he could see things with a different perspective.

"That's exactly what I think. Maybe it's far-fetched or – "

"It's not as far-fetched as you might believe and I agree. I hope Casey's not thinking of sleeping tonight. We're going back to the precinct and getting a warrant for another round of LUDs. You may have just given us the break we needed, sweetie. I think we're about to nail that prick after all." He corked the remaining wine, placing it in back in the paper bag as Sarah gathered their empty stemware.

"Let's hope so." She nudged him, smiling, her first genuine expression of happiness in days. "John, we did this together, don't ever think otherwise. If this pans out and sends the perp to Rikers, I know what we'll do to celebrate." They were walking toward the roof access door, once more eager to return to the precinct, their anxiety eased.

"I do, too – finish our bottle of Bordeaux and have one more cigarette, before we throw the rest of them away."

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End file.
